


First Time For Everything: Flirt - Jack

by Criccieth



Series: First Time For Everything [3]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen, Pre-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24046555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Criccieth/pseuds/Criccieth
Summary: All relationships have their stages and their first moments. This is one of them.The first time Jack comes on to Ianto is the morning of the younger man’s first day in the Hub. It’s refreshing, and fun, and the fact that Ianto seems to share his opinion certainly bodes well for the future.
Series: First Time For Everything [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693690
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	First Time For Everything: Flirt - Jack

The first time Jack comes on to Ianto is the morning of the younger man’s first day in the Hub. It’s refreshing, and fun, and the fact that Ianto seems to share his opinion certainly bodes well for the future.

It’s not quite six. This early in the day the Hub is virtually silent; only the quiet hum of computers left on for various reasons, the flow of the water down the tower and the low, almost inaudible whine of the air conditioning unit can be heard. No voices, no clattering of the keyboards or murmured conversations. No clanging of instruments against the autopsy table, no video game being played. No low sound of Owen’s grumbling or Suzie’s half-heard mutterings. Truth be told, he likes these silent hours. Even when the team works late - and last night was certainly a late one - he tries to ensure that they all get away at least between three and seven. It’s partly for their sakes, but also partly for his own. He needs this time alone; this time to stop having to be the leader, to stop having to be in control. To be able to remember the past without having to watch his words. Sometimes he records himself remembering things that won’t happen for hundreds of years, just to make sure he still remembers them – and then deletes the recording and adjusts the CCTV.

He wanders out of his office and looks up to the ledge about two-thirds of the way to the roof. He sent them all home while he was on his way back last night, not wanting the Hub to be full of noise and light when the pterodactyl woke up. The massive ladder that he ordered them to bring up from the storage bay on the next level down is still in place, leaning against the wall. He didn’t tell them why he needed it – told them they’d find out when they got in today. It took him quite an effort to get it up there, where it’s still in its drugged sleep, lying on some old blankets he found in the medical bay. _Best go down to the cold-room and get some Weevil rations for when it wakes up,_ he muses. They feed the Weevils on a mix of various raw meats and some grains, the combination worked out by Owen after various examinations he’s made of both captured and euthanised Weevils. It should keep the new arrival happy, at least for a while while they try and figure out a better diet. Owen will bitch, but what else is new?

But his thoughts move from the creature to the other element of last night and he swears softly. What the hell possessed him to tell Jones he had a job? He meant what he said the second time they met – he has no job vacancies, especially not for anyone without specialities.

Then he shakes his head with a brief laugh. He knows **exactly** what possessed him, if he’s honest. Or rather, he knows exactly what he was thinking **with** – and it wasn’t his head. When the boy had suddenly appeared from nowhere in Bute Park, he’d made the obvious assumption: in Bute Park at one in the morning there weren’t a lot of other reasons for a lone man to be there, especially not dressed like that. Technically, he should have broken out the Retcon but he tries to keep the Ret-con usage to the minimum amount possible. Because he knows what it’s like to wake up with your memories missing and one day, (he hopes) he’s going to have to justify the last few decades to the Doctor - and it's going to be easier to do that if he hasn’t left vast swathes of Cardiff’s residents with huge holes in their memories. There’s more than one person wandering around Cardiff un-Retconned because Jack has decided they’re either going to keep their mouths shut or they’re simply not going to be believed. And the truth is that the early 21st century being how it is, a rent-boy certainly fell into the second category. Who was he going to tell? No john was going to be interested in a conversation – not when that mouth and that body were for sale; any pimp he had was just going to tell him to shut up and work or face the consequences and the other prostitutes (male and female) would either laugh - or already know what he was talking about.

When the boy knew the name ‘Weevil’ though, he **had** been tempted to break out the Retcon - but it seemed ungrateful to force the stuff onto someone who’d just pulled a Weevil off his back and his normal method of inviting the witness to accompany him for a drink wasn’t practical in the middle of Bute Park at one in the morning. He’d decided that a rent-boy this pretty was going to be easy to track down if he needed to and if that happened, he could always offer above the boy’s going-rate for his company over a drink. So, after he’d gone back to the Hub and stashed the Weevil for Owen to sterilise for release, he’d looked up ‘Jones, Ianto Jones’ (albeit wondering if that was his real name). It hadn’t taken all that long to find information on the one he was looking for. Torchwood One, and wasn’t that an unpleasant little surprise?

It had been the boy’s presence outside the Hub yesterday morning that confirmed that he hadn’t fallen on hard times and been combing the park for clients - he wanted back into Torchwood. And what Jack had told him then was the straight truth – he wanted no part of London. He had no intention of letting any part of London into his city or his Hub. He had, perhaps, been a little harsher than the man deserved but it’s been only six weeks since he saw Rose’s name on the list of the dead and that pain still cuts deep. So he’d walked away, ignoring the other’s own clear pain. He’d thought that was that. Until he’d been out on the Rift Alert last night and found himself teamed up with this not-quite-stranger to snag a fucking **dinosaur** of all things. For the first time in a long while, this job had suddenly, briefly been **fun** again. And at least one reason for that was the young Welshman who criticised Torchwood Three with one breath before admitting to stealing equipment from Torchwood One with the next; then went alongside him to face off against something easily able to rip them both limb from limb - armed with nothing more than a bar of chocolate. And then the boy stood there and caught him as he fell 15 feet and rolled them both out of the way before…

A buzzer sounds suddenly, making him jump. It comes simultaneously from behind him in his office and from over on Tosh’s desk. It’s the alarm for the entrance upstairs – someone has just tried the Tourist Office door.

He moves to the bank of CCTV monitors and there, clear even in the dim illumination reaching from the Plas lights, standing right in front of the door - is Mr. Ianto Jones. Jack blinks and double-checks his watch, then reaches out and depresses a switch on the comm. station.

“It’s 6 a.m.” Outside, Jones starts only very slightly and even as he answers, Jack can see him running his gaze over the door and the surrounding wall.

“You said first thing, Captain.” On the final word he spots the camera, much to Jack’s surprise, and looks straight into it.

Jack draws a long breath and lets it out slowly, drumming his fingers on his thigh. _Now what?_ What, exactly, is he going to do about Jones? What’s he going to tell the team? Tosh, whilst she utilises proper scientific caution in her approach to everything else she comes across, seems to trust **him** implicitly and will probably believe whatever he tells her. But regardless of what he says, Suzie and Owen will draw their own conclusions. And they wouldn’t be far wrong either – because there was nothing professional in that offer. Lying there on the filthy floor with that long body sprawled across almost every inch of his own, feeling and smelling the boy’s arousal and knowing damn well that even without 51st century senses the younger man couldn’t possibly miss Jack’s own opinion, looking up into those eyes and seeing that mouth only centimetres from his own….

And then the soft, breathy whisper, ‘I should go’ and the sudden withdrawal; such an odd contrast from the come-ons the boy had previously given him. It was intriguing and it suddenly caught Jack’s interest in a whole new way. The flirting, the tight jeans and T-shirt, the rent-boy belt and the open-necked shirt giving way to the neat lines of the suit with its tie and the sudden pulling back… it was fascinating. From ‘fuck me’ to ‘hard-to-get’ and wasn’t that a contrast? Standing there watching him start to walk away Jack had suddenly known that he didn’t want this boy to go; he wanted to know what was going on, wanted to know what made this one tick – wanted **him**.

Which, as he’s already aware, is exactly what Owen and Suzie are going to assume. Come to that, it might well be what Jones is assuming. He wasn’t exactly subtle in Bute Park and then there was his snapback when Jack himself mentioned pheromones. _What to do….._

“Captain?” The tone is polite, but there is a flicker of concern on Jones’s face as he tilts his head slightly to one side, looking into the camera as though trying to see Jack’s own visage. Jack drums his fingers on his thigh, thinking quickly. He’s seriously tempted to just go up there and bring Jones down to his own room – take advantage of the fact that the others aren’t here to know. Jack’s neither blind nor oblivious – even with that sudden fascinating withdrawal last night, the signals the younger man was giving off during their first two meetings mean he doesn’t think it will take much persuasion on his own part to get the boy into bed. Into his bed and out of his system before this becomes one of what Suzie calls his ‘obsessions.’ And afterwards? Easy. Ret-con himself out of Ianto’s life and, while he’s at it, snuff out the painful memories of Canary Wharf. It would help the younger man, wouldn’t it? To be free of the memories that were clearly too much for him to easily handle. What Jack didn’t mention when Jones approached him yesterday is that his Torchwood file has him (and three of the other twenty-six survivors who have left the wreckage of the Tower for parts unknown) marked down as a‘Missing Survivor’ and flagged him as ‘Cleared, to be Debriefed’ – which means they’ve got all the information on what happened they want from him and he's to be Retconned and pensioned off as soon as he’s found. Which also means that after enjoying Jones’s company – and making sure the boy enjoys **his** company - all Jack needs to do is tell the Committee that Jones turned up in Cardiff and has been ‘debriefed’. They’ll tell him what private hospital to send him to and Jones will wake up in a few days with an ‘insurance payout’ in his bank account and be fed a story about some kind of accident resulting in a two-year-long coma. That’s the sensible thing to do. The logical thing to do.

And yet…..

Mind still not made up, Jack toggles the intercom.

“Wait a moment.” He heads for the cog-door, stepping over the usual debris and chaos that always litter the Hub. As he enters the Tourist Office, he flicks on the light and then takes the key from its hook before unlocking and opening the door. As he steps aside to let Jones enter, a gust of wind comes straight in off the water and through the open door, strong enough to bring a damp feel with it and cold enough to make Jack, clad only in slacks and shirt, gasp. He shuts and locks the door, then turns to face Jones.

What was it Suzie said yesterday about him liking them young and pretty? This one **is** young, by any standards other than Torchwood’s - he’s three years younger than even Tosh. ‘Pretty’ doesn’t come close – not even the dark of Bute Park or the warehouse had hidden the fact that he’s absolutely gorgeous. As this is only the second time he’s seen the younger man in light bright enough to really enjoy looking at him, Jack takes a moment to do just that.

This close, it’s clear he’s almost exactly the same height as Jack, although more lightly built. There’s something restrained in the way he holds himself that makes him seem to take up less space than he really does. He’s thin – too thin for his height, really; but then after surviving something like Canary Wharf, that’s hardly surprising. His eyes, in this light, are very blue and yet yesterday they seemed a greyish-blue. He’s definitely the easiest thing on the eye Jack has seen in a long time and the suit, slate grey this morning with a white shirt and light blue tie, just sets it all off. The idea of taking him to bed as soon as he can get them both downstairs has become even more appealing.

Without thinking, Jack takes a step closer. He can smell an interesting mix of ginger, pine and sandalwood coming from Jones’s skin - presumably soap or bodywash. There’s another smell too, familiar but too faint to identify. Whatever it is, the over-all combination is tantalising and he wonders if the boy tastes as good as he smells. The thought makes him realise he can also smell coffee, very faintly, and that reminds him of the sheer heaven of that mug Jones produced from God-knows-where yesterday morning. A vague idea begins to form in his mind.

“Captain?” Jones says again, his voice as soft as it was last night and Jack realises that he’s standing maybe six inches in front of the younger man, staring. It’s well into Jones’ personal space, but he doesn’t look like he minds.

“Aren’t you freezing?” he finds himself asking. The cold air that came in with Jones makes the hairs on Jack’s arms stand on end and that’s from just a brief gust. Jones has been standing outside in the pre-dawn on a Welsh winter’s day wearing just a thin suit but he gives a faint shrug and a small, even fainter, smile.

“Cardiff boy – I’m used to it.” Jack nods slightly. He has to admit, when he got back to the Hub after their first meeting and started searching for a ‘Ianto Jones’ in his early twenties, he hadn’t expected to find out the boy was a Torchwood employee. After that, he’d read the main Personal and Employment sections out of curiosity. A Cardiff boy he might regard himself as but he was born up in the valleys, coming to Cardiff at nine. He’d spent the rest of his childhood in Splott and then two years in Roath. The information entered under ‘prior employment’ had shown him drifting all over the place for almost three years – Leicester, Manchester, Bradford and a half-dozen other locations before finally landing in London. He’d held various jobs during that time including a market worker, office receptionist, silver-service waiter of all things, art gallery security guard (though you’d not think it to look at him) and finally tour guide. He apparently left each job of his own volition, never staying anywhere for more than a few months. Add to that the somewhat unusual circumstances of his recruitment to Torchwood and the brief notes made by his first team leader there, and Jack’s pretty confident that the boy is a bright, quick-thinking fast learner who is easily bored. Almost a pity that they don’t need a generalist and that no one at the Hub has time to pass on their specialities.

“Not manned very much, sir?” Jones says suddenly, glancing around the small, unattractive office.

 _Sir?_ He hasn’t been called ‘sir’ by anyone from Torchwood since the new recruit back in 1964, a lovely girl who very quickly learned to call him something else entirely; but the word makes him smile.

“We’re not that formal here, Ianto. Jack’s fine. And you’re right – this place was designed to be a front for our day-time comings and goings but...” he shrugs. “We just don’t seem to have the time or the hands to man it effectively.” Now that he thinks about it, the others would be relieved if they never had to set foot behind that desk again, even for the few hours a week they normally manage to have someone here. Jack tilts his head to one side, examining Ianto.

“How did you know?” One of Ianto’s eyebrows lifts slightly before he points at some of the flyers on the desk.

“They’re a year out of date, sir,” he says calmly.

“Ah.” Jack pauses for a second, thinking. The idea tickling at the back of his mind is picking up speed.

“You know anything about tourism in Cardiff?” he asks.

“How much it’s worth to the local economy, sir, or what there is for tourists to do?”

“The tourists.”

Ianto nods slightly. “I could answer a few general queries, sir, yes.”

“Speak anything apart from English?”

“Espanol, Deutsche, Francais, Italiano, English, Cymraeg. In increasing order of fluency, which means I can ask for directions and discuss the weather in Spanish. I know a few basic phrases in Urdu, Swahili and Japanese. I can even understand American.” At the last, his voice stays in exactly the same precise, dry tone but there is another of those faint smiles on his face and Jack snorts with laughter, grinning broadly. He long ago adjusted to the fact that to Earth-born humans, his native accent sounds American. It comes in useful at times. 

“Impressive list. Most people just about manage a bit of French.”

“My secondary school offered Italian from first year instead of French.”

“How did you learn the rest?” Jack asks out of curiosity.

Something flickers in Ianto’s eyes for a second, there and gone too fast for Jack to have any idea what it was.

“When I was seventeen I… knew someone who had a lot of language CDs. I used to listen to them. The Urdu I picked up in Leicester, and one of my colleagues on the tour buses was a Japanese student.”

Jack nods and then something occurs to him.

“More fluent in Welsh than English?”

“My first language, sir.”

“Really?” Jack’s intrigued despite himself. You hear more Welsh on the streets of Cardiff than you used to, but there aren’t many people Ianto’s age in this part of Wales who speak it as their first language.

Ianto answers in Welsh, the words flowing in that marvellous liquid fashion of the truly fluent and although Jack picks out ‘yes’ and ‘English’ and something about ‘easy’, he knows that’s not everything Ianto said. He shakes his head, letting his bemusement show on his face and gets another of those faint smiles in return.

“Once you’ve mastered English as a second language, sir, everything else is easy.”

“I always thought Welsh was the hard one to learn?”

“With respect, sir, that’s what the English-speakers say.”

Jack grins again, liking the droll humour. It makes a pleasant change from Owen, whose idea of funny can be more than slightly cruel at times. And he hasn’t failed to notice the Welshman is still calling him ‘sir’. He steps behind the desk and hits the control for the Hub door. The sight of half the wall moving away to reveal the tunnel behind usually provokes some sort of reaction but Ianto just nods once.

“I wondered where the entrance was,” is all he says. Jack moves ahead of him through the door and turns to see Ianto glancing up at the CCTV monitor and loudspeaker/microphone on the Hub-side of the entryway. He sees Jack watching him and nods at the set-up.

“Two-way speaker system I presume, sir?”

“Yeah – switch for the other end is by the door control.” The door slides shut again and Jack leads the way toward the Hub proper.

In the lift, Jack gestures at the control panel.

“General supplies are on the first level. We’ve got a full medical bay on the second. The Hub itself starts on the third level.” Ianto nods wordlessly and Jack lets the lift descend. He’s standing just inches from the other man, far closer than is necessary in this space, but as before, the Welshman shows no sign of resenting the proximity. He is however, silent, staring at the lift door. Just as the lift slows, he draws breath as though to say something, but then the doors open and he moves forward, Jack a step or two behind.

“Yes.” The one-syllable response is not quite what Jack is expecting. Most people go with reactions closer to Suzie’s “Dear God” or Owen’s “fuck all!”. He looks at Ianto and realises with a spark of surprise that the younger man is not staring upward or around him in shock or awe. He’s staring across the main part of the Hub.

“Busy week, was it, sir?” Ianto nods out at the Hub. Jack blinks. Then he turns and looks across the Hub again.

“Ummmm” he says after a moment. “Well, we’ve had busier. It **is** a bit of a mess, isn’t it?” He glances back at Ianto. “Organised chaos?” He can hear a hopeful note in his voice.

Ianto shakes his head. “I’ve seen organised chaos. This isn’t it. I was thinking more of a bomb-site.”

On reflection, Jack is inclined to the idea of a tornado-hit bomb-site. Paperwork is piled haphazardly on almost every horizontal surface – some of it forms and reports, some of it archive material. Artefacts from the archives, dug out in a hurry to help with a case and then never returned, are strewn around all over the place. Items that have come through the Rift which no-one has yet had the time to study or catalogue, are stacked in a couple of cardboard boxes by the sofa. Empty cups, both china and disposable, are scattered around alongside similar plates containing the slowly decaying remains of several hastily-snatched meals, some over a week old. Rubbish and dust complete the picture.

From the look on Ianto’s face - half-disbelief, half-disgust - it’s probably a good thing that from here he can’t see the over-flowing box of ripped and dirty clothes in Jack’s office, or the tiny and, now Jack comes to think of it, somewhat grubby kitchen. The toilets are about the only part of the Hub that aren’t like this, because Tosh and Owen both insist on keeping the respective facilities clean. Down in the basement, the archives are as bad, if not worse, than the main Hub. They simply don’t have the time to deal with any of this – keeping their heads above the flood-waters of the Rift takes almost all their time and energy and both he and Tosh are already working themselves to exhaustion just trying to take care of the least-possible amount clean-up that will allow Torchwood to maintain its secrecy. Every few days he manages to get round to clearing away some of the accumulated junk but it can take hours to find that one particular bit of research or tech or information. It’s one reason they all keep the essentials of their own work on their desks.

“How do you **find** anything?” Ianto is looking at him with a bemused expression.

“Generally by moving other things until what you’re looking for turns up. Of course, sometimes you don’t find what you actually need, you find what you were looking for a week earlier, but…” his voice trails off, dimmed by the sheer wattage of the glare Ianto is directing at him. Suddenly, he feels like he used to when Alex bawled him out for a particularly fool-hardy approach to solving mission problems – abashed and a little guilty. He tries a broad smile, but Ianto’s expression doesn’t change by a hair.

“C’mon,” he says. “We’ll use my office.” He doesn’t say exactly what they’re going to use that office for, because his mind is wavering between two distinct choices right now. One idea is still to persuade Ianto to make good on those unspoken offers of their first two meetings and get him into bed. In some ways it’s even more appealing now than it was ten minutes ago because this boy is simply mouth-watering. Those lips that were so close to his own last night are extremely tempting and the brief glimpse he caught of the boy’s arse yesterday…. But the prospect of ret-conning him after bedding him, never actually very appealing, is starting to seem downright boring. And the germ of an idea that started ticking over in his mind upstairs is gaining strength – not least became it’s not actually incompatible with his first idea.

He leads Ianto across the walkway, passing behind the water tower on the way to his office. Perhaps because he’s unsure as to exactly what he’s going to do, the silence makes him feel slightly uncomfortable and he doesn’t like being uncomfortable in his own domain so:-

“Didn’t expect you in this early. Normally it’s only me here at this time of day.”

“What time do the others normally arrive?” The question has the tone of something being asked for politeness sake only, but he answers nonetheless.

“Between eight and nine usually, but it does vary. Probably be a bit later today: late one last night – I sent them home just before three.” There is a sudden indrawn breath from behind him and he turns to see Ianto standing stock-still, tension evident in his whole body. He gives Jack a long look.

“I didn’t leave the warehouse till 2:45.” There is a second’s pause, and a wary look comes over Ianto’s face. “They don’t know about me, do they?”

“Ummm… No. Haven’t told them yet,” Jack says. Ianto swallows and his hands, which have been loose at his sides, suddenly flex. He looks far more perturbed than Jack expects.

“Was that a genuine job offer last night, Captain?” Jack hesitates, not sure how to answer. Suddenly, Ianto steps forward, reducing the gap between them until he’s so close Jack can smell not only the bodywash, but the wool and cotton of the stylish suit and the scent of mint and cloves coming from the Welshman’s mouth. That mouth is once more close enough to kiss and he can’t tear his eyes from the boy’s lips as Ianto speaks, his voice as soft and quiet as it was in the warehouse. It’s almost hypnotic.

“What is it I’m here for – sir?” Jack reaches out a hand, not sure what he is about to do or say, but knowing he wants to touch that mouth.

The shriek of the pterodactyl shatters the growing tension and both men start back from each other, turning to look up as the creature takes flight.

It swoops up to the roof directly over their heads then dives almost straight down. For a moment, Jack watches in delight, just enjoying the sheer uniqueness of the moment, then he realises that the beast is coming lower and lower.

Ianto grabs his shoulder and pulls him down into a crouch and the creature’s strong claws miss them by inches. It gives a harsh cry that seems to hold a note of disappointment, and then soars back upward to the roof, circling.

“Run for cover?” Jack says, pointing to the boardroom door at the top of the stairway a few feet from them.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Ianto says tersely and they make a dash for the safety of the big room as the dinosaur completes another circuit of the roof-space. It spots them and dives again but they reach the boardroom just ahead of it and Jack slams the door behind them. He glances across to check the far doors, feeling a surge of relief when he sees they’re closed. The two men stand side by side just inside the door, looking back out into the Hub.

“What now?” Ianto says. Jack hesitates. He hadn’t actually thought about what he was going to do when it woke up. After a moment Ianto speaks again, his tone slightly diffident.

“I may be missing my guess, sir - but I think she’s hungry.”

“She?”

He’s answered firstly by a flat look similar to the one he was given two nights ago when he avowed ignorance over the word ‘Weevil’.

“You didn’t notice last night?” Ianto says dryly. “You got a closer look than I did, Captain.”

Jack lets his gaze wander up and down Ianto’s body and gives the boy a deliberate smirk.

“Kinda had other things on my mind,” he says. He’s been told before that flirting isn’t appropriate in dangerous situations and he couldn’t disagree more. In a potential life-or-death situation, what better way is there to **know** that you’re alive?

“Point taken,” Ianto says without as much as a blink. He turns his gaze away from Jack to look out of the window, leaving Jack wondering whether he’s just been set back or given a come-on. “Still, I’d say it’s female – and I’m even more sure she’s hungry.”

“There’s a supply of meat in the cold-room down by the holding cells,” Jack says. Although the thought that she’s hungry is a logical assumption, it occurs to him for the first time to ask just how the creature **got** into the warehouse and he makes a mental note to ask Ianto about that at the first opportunity. Right now though, he once again has other things on his mind.

“How would you suggest we get there?” Ianto replies.

“Distract her, make a run for it.”

“What distractions do you actually have to hand, sir?”

“Well….” Jack moves closer, his smile widening. The smile never fails. Ianto’s gaze flickers down and then back up to meet Jack’s eyes, taking in the whole of his body on the journey, a clear echo of Jack’s action of moments earlier. He raises an eyebrow slightly and answers in the same dry tone he used previously.

“I meant for the **pterodactyl** , sir.” Okay – so the smile didn’t have quite the expected effect. But Jack’s a Never Say Die man.

“What a shame.” He goes from the smile to the grin. “Right now I could use a good distraction.”

Ianto’s tone doesn’t change and aside from one raised eyebrow, nor does his cool, calm expression. “Are we on working hours, sir? Because if so, I think that might count as harassment.”

“Might?” Jack feels a sudden flicker of concern. After all - flirting is one thing but if Ianto genuinely doesn’t want this, then that’s a different matter. Yet surely, he can’t have read the boy that wrong?

“Yes, sir. Can we return to the issue of the pterodactyl now?” He turns back to look out of the window, leaving Jack caught between concern that the comment was serious - and wondering hopefully if this means that it doesn’t count as harassment **outside** of working hours. Just then, the pterodactyl swoops past the door once more with a shriek, making both men instinctively duck. She tries again, clearly trying to work out an angle that will allow her to actually get at them. The glass door is, of course, something of which she has no concept.

Jack looks at his watch.

“Hell, we need to think of something – once she hits that glass, it’s not going to hold for ever. And Tosh will be walking in here in a little over 40 minutes.” He starts searching the room, going through the various boxes that he fills every now and then with the junk that collects here over the course of briefings, meetings and conference calls. He keeps meaning to go through it all and tidy up, but rarely seems to have the time and the energy both together. The number of times they eat in here, there has to be something they can **use**. From just out of his line of vision, he hears Ianto.

“I thought you said they’d be in late today?”

“Not Tosh. Some sort of scan she’s got running, finishes at seven.” He starts on the next box, shoving papers aside so roughly they cascade over the side and onto the floor. “Ah!” He snatches his discovery from the box and crosses the floor to Ianto’s side in seconds. “Think this’ll do it?”

Ianto looks down at the plastic-wrapped item he’s holding and then back up at Jack.

“Oh yes, absolutely. Speaking as the resident expert in all matters pertaining to the Creataceous Period and Pterosauria, jerked beef is definitely her favourite!”

Jack glares at him. “You know what they say about sarcasm being the lowest form of wit, don’t you?”

“Yes sir, they also say it’s the highest form of intelligence.” Again, his expression is dead-pan and Jack can’t tell if he’s being knocked back, encouraged or mocked. But whichever one it is, there’s pretty much nothing Jack can think of by way of reply right now, so he steps up to the door and looks through, trying to spot the blasted thing.

“We’ll need to make for the stairs there,” he says, pointing. “She shouldn’t be able to follow – not enough room for her to get through.” Ianto nods briefly.

“Fortunately. May I ask why there’s a packet of beef jerky under a pile of paperwork, by the way?” he asks. It takes Jack a moment or so before he remembers.

“We were working late, oh, last month, and it got to 4am and we realised we hadn’t eaten. All the takeaways were shut, it was Sunday by then and all we could get hold of was a few sausage rolls and a few packets of this from a petrol station.”

“You forgot to eat.” It’s a statement, not a question. “That happen often?”

“Well…” Jack shrugs. “Every now and then. Busy Rift, small team.”

“And suddenly, I miss the canteen.” Ianto says. “Despite the truly abysmal catering. At least it was open 24/7.”

Jack grins in response. “Last time Hartman insisted on my being at an inter-office meeting, I tried the chili.”

Ianto is still watching for the pterodactyl, but his mouth flickers for a second in something that might almost have been a smile. “No-one **warned** you?”

“Warned me? Hartman’s aide recommended it!”

Ianto looks over at him, and shakes his head slightly. “What did you do to him?”

“I only flirted a little!” Jack smiles suddenly at the memory. “He’s kinda hot.” _But nowhere near as much as you_ he thinks. Then he sees the sudden hardness of Ianto’s face. “What?”

“He was converted.”

The room is silent. Ianto is staring straight ahead, his eyes focused beyond the Hub at something Jack can’t see. Something he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to see. Although it hurts to know that the Doctor ( **his** Doctor, not the earlier versions he tracked for so many years) was in the here-and-now and he didn’t know until it was too late, and although it near as damn-it broke his heart to read Rose’s name in the list of the dead, he’s filled with relief that the Doctor managed to seal the Void and send the Cybermen back. Earth has had, unknown to almost everyone outside UNIT and Torchwood, trouble enough with the Cybermen from Mondas and Talos; and his history lessons tell him his adopted planet will have more trouble in the future - no need to add to that with versions from alternative dimensions.

“I’m sorry” is all Jack can think to say. Ianto, his eyes still focused a long way beyond the room, swallows convulsively.

“His family were one of the lucky ones,” he says, and there is a bitter note in his voice.

“How so?” Jack asks gently.

“They actually got a body to bury, even if its mind was in a metal hulk.” Jack flinches slightly. After their second meeting, he went back and read Lisa Hallett’s file as well. Despite Ianto’s brusque statement, she’s on the “missing” list, which he must know. One of over three hundred whose bodies have never been recovered. The lucky ones would have been exterminated. The unlucky ones were pulled into the Void because they were converted with technology brought through by the Cybermen. Does he speak of her as dead to avoid the thought that she may have been one of those unfortunates? 

“Lisa,” he starts to say, hesitantly.

“I was left to tell her family,” Ianto says harshly. “Her sister said ‘missing’ was just a euphemism for ‘we can’t find a fucking body. Her brother….’” He cuts himself off, swallowing audibly.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says again, horribly aware of how useless the words are and of how he disowned all responsibility for Ianto and his fellow survivors only yesterday. He should contact the Committee. Find out what is being done for them.

Ianto’s eyes suddenly focus on him, and for an uncomfortable moment, Jack feels as though he is standing on the edge of a precipice, a fall down into something dark just a breath away.

“I’m sorry, too,” Ianto whispers.

Abruptly, he turns partly away, squeezing his eyes closed. One hand clenches to a fist and the other comes up to his head, tightening into his black hair. The knuckles on both hands turn white with the pressure. He draws in one deep ragged breath and lets it out slowly. For a second, he is quite still. Then his eyes snap open and he turns to face Jack again, hands loose at his sides. His face is entirely calm, nothing in his demeanour telling of the depth of feeling that was there a moment ago. For a second, Jack hesitates. There is something here, something wrong. Some inner voice is telling him to be wary, as though there is danger. That so much emotion shouldn’t just vanish like this. Then:-

“Ms Sato,” Ianto says, his voice as calm as his face. “The pterodactyl.” He reaches into a hip pocket and draws out a small, silvery item. Suddenly Jack is aware of a smooth, soft tick-tick-tick. It distracts him, and he stops listening to that inner voice. It takes him a moment to realise what the item and the sound are.

“We have thirty-two minutes and thirty seconds until Ms Sato arrives,” Ianto says. “Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-…”

“You carry a stopwatch around?” Jack exclaims. “What the hell do you use it for?”

Ianto looks at him, frowning.

“For timing purposes, sir.” There is a short pause before he speaks again. “What other uses for a stopwatch are you aware of?” Jack opens his mouth to answer and then realises that all the things he can think of pretty much come under the heading of “timing purposes.”

“Well,” he starts to say, only to be interrupted by a loud crash from the main area of the Hub. They both look out in time to see one of the monitors go smashing to the floor as the pterodactyl tries to lift it, only to be defeated by the fact that she can’t get a decent grip.

“Perhaps you should tell me later, Captain,” Ianto says.

“Yeah,” Jack comments, distracted by the angry screech from his new resident. Remembering what he was doing, he rips the rest of the plastic wrap from the dried beef and looks over at Ianto.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. What, exactly, is the plan sir?”

Jack holds up the beef strips and nods at the door.

“Open door, throw beef across the Hub, run like hell for the stairs.”

“Succinct, sir,” Ianto says with a short nod. “And actually something of an improvement on last night’s plan.”

Jack glares at him. “Are you always this insubordinate, or is it just me?”

“Just you.” Ianto moves over to the door before Jack can think of a come-back to that, but he’s now becoming more convinced that he’s being either encouraged or gently mocked. Either, frankly, seems appealing if it’s done in that delectable accent.

Ianto puts his hand on the door-handle and looks questioningly at Jack, holding up the middle three fingers of his other hand. Jack steps up beside him, draws a deep breath and nods.

“One, two, **three,** ” Ianto counts aloud. On ‘three,’ he yanks the door open, stepping back as he does so. Jack steps through the door and whistles sharply. The pterodactyl, flapping in a slow circle overhead, twists in mid-air toward the sound. As soon as the beady little eyes fix on him, she starts to swoop down. Jack hauls back and throws the half-dozen strips as far as he can and feels a surge of relief as she turns her whole body to glide after them.

“Run!” he yells, suiting action to word as he charges towards the stairs, Ianto close behind. They don’t stop until Jack is a score of steps down the twisting stairway, when he staggers to a halt and turns to grin at the younger man.

“Whoa! That was fun!”

“Yes, sir,” Ianto says in what’s already becoming a familiar, droll, tone. He’s not even breathing hard, Jack notices, despite the headlong dash. “To paraphrase a famous author, that was obviously some strange new definition of the word I was not previously aware of.” But there’s a look in his eyes that matches what Jack saw there last night – a hint of mischief and a spark of laughter. Jack snorts with laughter himself and is rewarded by a small smile.

God, he has **missed** this. He hasn’t had anything like this in the job since Tom died with the rest on Millennium Eve. Tosh will chat to him but refuses to engage in anything resembling banter; Suzie ignores or shuts down any innuendo he tries to throw her way and the only flirting Owen’s interested in is what he gets up to with each and every woman who crosses his path. You’d think that might be fading off after two years but it seems to be his main coping mechanism. Jack hasn’t realised just how much he’s been missing this style of exchange until right now, when it’s suddenly there again.

His mind, it seems, has made itself up. This is **not** going to be ret-conned away and that’s flat. He’s just going to have to come up with some sort of excuse for keeping Ianto around.

A polite cough brings his attention sharply back to the here-and-now and Ianto holds up the stop-watch. The tick-tick-tick of seconds flowing past recalls him to their current situation.

“Twenty-three minutes, 15 seconds, and counting,” Ianto says. Jack nods and starts off down the stairs, a jerk of his head bringing Ianto with him. Under the circumstances, he doesn’t give Ianto the guided tour on the way, though he does quickly indicate the destinations of the secondary flights of stairs and the tunnels that spilt off the main stairway.

“Nine levels of cells altogether, though we mainly only use the top two. Some of them are for aliens we’re trying to send home, others are for more long-term purposes. The Weevils we have to catch, we neuter and release but we’ve one permanent resident we use for study purposes.” Thinking about some of One’s practises, he clarifies. “That’s not a euphemism, we don’t experiment on her beyond seeing how she reacts to reasonable changes in the environment.”. They know from experiments done right up to 1999 that Weevils can survive comfortable in temperatures well above and below the comfortable human range; and can live on sparse rations and eat things that would turn a human stomach. Owen’s studies are more along the lines of how does Janet react to different pitches and rhythms of sound; and how changes in her light-level make her more comfortable and tractable. Ianto nods and some tension seems to ease from him.

“Storage basements are below the cells – the larger items that come through the Rift are stored down there. Smaller artefacts and papers are in the archives - I’ll show you later.”

“How much room is there down there?” Ianto asks causally.

“Lots. Back in the 1960’s, we – Torchwood – added extra levels for fallout shelters in the event of nuclear war. Wired for electricity, even got water and sewer connections, all tied into the Hub’s own system. There’re whole levels we don’t use yet, but we’re always getting new stuff through the Rift so we’ll need ‘em one day. But you could put an army down there and still have room to move.”

“An army might just be enough of a power drain to alert someone on the surface.”

“Nah, we’ve got our own generator. Very green, combination of geo-thermal and wave. We could triple the power demands of this place and not even notice.” Ianto nods silently.

Rounding one last curve, they reach the upper storage level and leave the stairway. Jack leads the way down the tunnel to the cold-room and unlocks the door. The walls of the room are covered with shelves, several of which are filled with the cloth-wrapped bags of meat, each bundle weighing in excess of 10kg. He sees Ianto glance around.

“One bag feeds a Weevil for a coupla days,” he says. He grabs two bags and hands them to Ianto, then grabs two more for himself. Moments later, they are back out of the room and he locks the door as Ianto heads back along the tunnel. He lengthens his stride to catch up before the younger man has reached the stairs.

“You don’t have the meat delivered, do you?” Ianto asks.

“Nope. Get it wholesale from an abattoir out Newport way. They think we’re a pet-food firm. We order it, go out and pick it up.” He jerks his head back toward the cold-room. “The back corridors link this level with the Waterside Carpark. Get the SUV or a van into the carpark and unload everything straight through the secured doors into the Hub. No-one ever notices anything.”

They don’t talk any further as they climb the stairs, silently concentrating on ascending as fast as they can. It’s only then that Jack realises that Ianto makes hardly any noise as he walks; even on the metal stairs, he is almost silent. And despite climbing over 100 steep steps carrying 20 kilograms over his shoulders, he isn’t any more out of breath than Jack is by the time the top of the stairs comes into sight. They stop then, and Jack looks at Ianto.

“We need a tranquilizer gun, just in case.” He shrugs his shoulders, dropping the two meat-bags down into his hands. “Same kind of plan as before, only you stay here. I’ll throw these for her and make for the armoury while she’s distracted. I’ll get a gun and ammunition – should be able to get a shot from the armoury door if need be.”

“And my role, sir?” Jack wouldn’t normally let an opening like that go by without a come-on, but right now, he’s more concerned about Tosh walking in. Above their heads, he hears the pterodactyl shriek again. The meat scraps he threw earlier have probably done nothing other than whet her appetite.

“Stay here – if I need you to get your bags to her, I’ll yell.” Ianto nods once and Jack turns and runs up the last few steps before he can think about whether this is a good idea or not.

He hits the top of the stairs and drops one bag at his feet to take hold of the other in both hands. As before, he throws it as hard as he can and when it hits the ground with a thunk, the bag splits open. The smell of raw meat, faint until now, suddenly becomes strong. Perhaps two seconds pass before there is a rush of wind above his head and the dinosaur drops from above, her wings folded back, to land on the open bag with a clear note of triumph in her voice. As she lowers her head to tear at the meat, Jack throws the other bag to land near her and then bolts for the Armoury before she can even react.

He slams the glass doors closed behind him and strides down the room, snatching up gun and ammunition in seconds. Before she’s finished even the first bundle, he’s back at the door, watching her through the glass as he loads the gun.

It takes her only minutes to devour the contents of both bags. Then, just as he is opening the door, intending to take his shot whilst she is on the ground, she launches herself back into the air. He bites back a curse and opens his mouth to call out for Ianto to ground her again with more meat, when she swoops up to the ledge from which she woke and descends back onto the piled-up blankets. From this angle, he can see clearly and he watches in relieved amazement as she settles down and falls asleep in seconds.

“Huh!” He raises his voice. “C’mon up – all clear.” He looks toward the stairs as Ianto appears and again he notes how quietly Ianto moves - from just a few feet away, Jack can’t hear his footsteps.

One quick glance at the tattered bags on the floor is apparently all it takes for Ianto to realise where the dinosaur is, because his gaze lifts straight up to the ledge. He nods once, then looks at Jack, inclining his head to the bag on his left shoulder.

“Where shall I put these, sir?”

“Stick ‘em down in the autopsy room for now,” Jack says, indicating the general direction. “We’ll have to work out what to do about her later.”

Ianto nods briefly. “Yes sir. And what will you be doing about me, sir?” His voice is so smooth and calm it takes Jack a second to actually register the meaning of the words. He hesitates, unsure what to answer. He’s now firmly of the opinion that he wants to continue enjoying Ianto’s presence – but there’s still the issue of exactly what job he can give him. Because unless he can give them a concrete reason, Suzie and Owen will both assume the boy has been hired purely to keep Jack’s bed warm the moment they clap eyes on him. And whilst Suzie will keep her carping for Jack’s ears only, he’s aware of the risk of Owen’s vicious mouth making Ianto’s life a misery. There are moments he wonders about his judgement in hiring Owen rather than ret-conning him, but the doctor is damn good at his job so Jack keeps him on.

The low, repetitive buzz of his mobile saves him. He taps his ever-present earpiece and hears Tosh.

“Morning, Jack.”

“Tosh! What’s up?”

“Going to be late – there’s been an accident on Fitzalan Place. Probably going to delay me by about twenty, twenty-five minutes. That artefact scan is due to finish soon – could you disconnect the system when it’s done? I should be in shortly after.”

“OK. See you later.” She rings off and he looks over at Ianto.

“Tosh. She’ll be late.” He moves forward, meaning to take one of the meat bags from Ianto and lead the way down into the autopsy room. His foot catches on something on the floor, and he lurches forward, staggering a step before he catches his balance. He turns and sees one of Owen’s boots, the ones they wear when they have some warning of a visit to Cardiff’s sewer system, lying in the middle of the floor. He swears under his breath – is Owen trying to break someone’s neck? And then he smiles, because suddenly it’s all come together: the idea ticking in the back of his mind since he first thought of that coffee; Ianto’s own words from last night; the look on the boy’s face when he saw the state of the hub – even Owen’s goddamn boot.

He turns to Ianto.

“What I'm going to do, Ianto, is help you shove the bags into the autopsy room and then give you a tour of the Hub.”

The tour doesn’t take in the deepest levels of the Hub (no time) and he doesn’t tell him more than the basics about Mainframe (Tosh’s area of expertise) but he shows the Welshman the medical bay and the supply rooms that lie between the surface and the Hub proper as well as the central Hub, the upper exits that lead to the carparks for easy access when they have new artefacts or corpses and lastly, the Archive Room.

Why they call it a ‘room’ he’s not really sure, as it’s not. It’s the entire upper two levels of the basement system and soon they’re going to have to start using the third level. Filing cabinets and boxes and shelves, all of them filled with papers and those artefacts smaller than a sack of potatoes (the storage area below the cells, where the larger items are stored, is even more disorganised). Once, it was all ordered and organised, with the files cross-referenced by name and origin and date, and anything that could or might be connected to anything else flagged as such. Enough remains of that system that you can normally find what you need if it was already here on Millennium Eve. If it’s been recovered since, you have a chance of finding it if you spend long enough looking but he knows damn well that it’s getting harder and harder. Every couple of months one of them tries to do something about the chaos, only to give up after a few days when another crisis or disaster takes priority.

Ianto stands in the middle of an open area on the edge of the lower Archive level and looks at the stack of files that one or another of them dumped on a nearby desk about three weeks ago.

“I see,” is all he says. He looks over at Jack. “Tell me sir, do you have any **pleasant** surprises for me?”

Jack opens his mouth with every intention of offering something he hopes Ianto will find very pleasant indeed when he remembers something completely different – something that’s been sat in the same place since it arrived three days before Christmas 1999.

“I might have,” he says. “Come on.” He leads the way back up to the main Hub and down the side of the Armoury into the minute kitchen. Fridge, microwave and kettle are the only additions to the sink and cupboards and nothing’s been cleaned properly in a week; mugs and plates just rinsed off quickly when no-one can find anything clean.

“Oh dear God,” Ianto says. “Why would anyone…”

“Ah-ha!” Jack shakes a finger and Ianto falls silent, giving him a bemused look, which is a damn sight better than the gesture Owen would be giving him in these circumstances. Jack crouches down and reaches into the narrow space under the worktop next to the fridge. He pulls out a large, dust-covered box and Ianto moves forward, seemingly automatically, to help him lift it. When it’s on the worktop, Jack brushes the worst of the dust off with his shirt sleeve, revealing the writing on the top.

“Ah!” Ianto actually gives a real, full-on smile and looks across at him. “Why isn’t this in use?” As he draws breath to answer, Jack is struck by the fact that the smile makes Ianto look even younger than he normally does. Not to mention even more attractive. He makes a mental note to see what else it will take to get that expression on the boy’s face. Ianto doesn’t look like he smiles enough.

“We’ve all read the instructions,” Jack says ruefully. “None of us has ever been able to make head nor tail of them.”

Ianto’s mouth twitches upward, a flash of humour on his face. “I’m sorry?” There is just the faintest tremor in his voice, as though he’s trying not to laugh. Jack mock-glares at him and Ianto’s mouth twitches again. Before he can get distracted, Jack wrenches his eyes from Ianto’s mouth and turns to start rummaging through the hanging cupboards.

“Hey!” he says as he does. “That operating manual reads like it was translated from Swahili to Latin by a Weevil and then handed to an Ancient Breton for translation into English!”

“Hmmm,” Ianto says. “And it didn’t occur to anyone to read or translate directly from the Italian?”

“Italian?”

“It **is** an Italian model, sir.” Ianto looks up from the manual he’s perusing and sees what Jack is holding. “Ah!” He reaches out and takes the packet. “Thank you, sir.” His eyes meet Jack’s. “Shall I bring something up to your office in half an hour or so?” The eyebrow lifts again. _Oh yeah,_ thinks Jack.

Just then, the alarm sounds and the rumbling of the cog-door reaches the kitchen. Jack looks up at the CCTV monitor in the corner, which automatically cuts to whichever door is being used when the sensors trigger. He can’t help but feel a wave of disappointment when he sees not just one, but all three of his team walk in, deep in conversation together.

“Attractive as that sounds, Ianto, better make it a round of coffees in the boardroom. I’ll introduce you to the team and let them all know why you’re here.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack nods once, receiving a calm nod in return. As he walks out of the kitchen, he hears Ianto lift the never-used coffee maker from the box.


End file.
